


The Scrap Heap

by lousy_science



Series: The Does What it Says on the Tin series [9]
Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Burns, M/M, Minor Injuries, Nursing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 16:42:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/pseuds/lousy_science
Summary: More supply closet smut.





	The Scrap Heap

**Author's Note:**

> I sincerly hope you're not reading these for the rigorous historical accuracy.

Where was Farrier? Collins winced as the bandage was pulled off his wound. Biting his lips, he kept his head down, not wanting the nurse to feel bad. She’d already said sorry three or four times. 

“Is this still sore?”

He smiled at her with gritted teeth. “Not too bad, love.”

It was a seeping burn, red with rawness, he wondered how on earth she could think it wouldn’t bloody well hurt. But then he looked at her big scared eyes and the quaver in her hands. She was still a kid, really. 

Drawing in air through his nose, he tried to keep his breathing even and not distract her from the dressing. Looking around the crowded room, he tried to spot Farrier between the medical screens and bustling nurses. 

The bandages pulled on the hairs of his arm. He’d never thought there were so many nerve endings there; it was funny how the body had endless surprises in store. 

That made him think dirty thoughts about Farrier and dark hotel rooms, and he refocused on those arm hairs instead. Best not to get a stiff one while there was a baby nurse kneeling at his side. She would get more than enough of that nonsense from some of this lot. 

It hadn’t been the worst kind of firefight. Just a skirmish. He’d taken a hit on the wing and had to bail out after the side of his cockpit began to buckle with heat. It had been Farrier who’d picked him up, appearing in a truck in the field Collins was dragging his parachute across.

“All that white trailing behind you, you look like a blushing bride.”

“Ha bloody ha,” Collins marched up to where Farrier was standing and grabbed him quick, getting in a kiss before Farrier spotted his wound. 

He couldn’t resist, still revved up from the fight, the jump, the sight of the German plane spiralling into the ocean. There but for the grace of God went either of them, and Farrier had just had his hair cut. Collins was getting a kiss. 

That was the last soft thing he could remember. Once he’d been bundled in the truck with sharp instructions to keep his arm safe, he’d gone a little frozen, and things had gotten murky. His teeth had chattered and he’d made out the words “state of shock” amid the medical babble when they arrived at base. 

They’d cut off the arm of his jacket, which had upset him. The shirt underneath was a goner, he knew, but he thought the jacket completely salvageable with a bit of care and attention. 

One of the nurses had bought him a hot cuppa, made sweet like he liked it, and he knew Farrier had told her how to make it. A tin of shortbread made it way to him and he stuffed himself as the Doctor reviewed his arm, the cut on his chin, and the bruises he’d picked up on the way down. 

“You’ll live.”

“Nae joke there n’all,” Collins got more Scots when he was cranky. The doctor had looked at him disapprovingly, and sent him off to get a new dressing from Debbie here.

She finished the wrap job and patted his shoulder. “All done!”

He still hadn’t spotted Farrier. “Ah, cheers, that’s great.”

“You’ll have to come back and get it changed. If you come in at six, I’ll be here.”

“Six hundred or eighteen hundred?”

Looking blank, she let her mouth open for a second, then clued up. “Eighteen hundred, I mean.”

He felt bad. “Just joshing you. You did a good job, thanks.” 

The tea and biscuits had revived him, but he was still a little wobbly on his pins as he stood up. 

“Debbie?”

“Yes?”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where they put my jacket, would you?”

 

The narrow room behind the medical area had a few crates of scraps and offcuts - old blankets, bits of uniform, bedsheets with suspicious stains on them. Behind him there were beautifully neat stacks of bandages and other kit, plus bedding supplies. Collins had decided whether he found his jacket or not, he’d half inch a couple of blankets for him and Farrier. 

“Sir, this room is for medical staff only.”

“Sod off,”

“I’ll have to insist that you leave at once.”

Collins rolled his eyes at Farrier, who closed the door behind him and threw the lock. He leaned on the wall, watching Collins paw with one arm through the pungent-smelling piles of clothes. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Debbie let me in. That's Nurse Rogers to you.”

“Ah, your pal the nurse, I saw her giving you the eyes during treatment. Surprised she didn’t slip a ring on your finger while she was at it.”

“You seem to have marriage on the mind today.”

Farrier hummed the wedding march and came up behind Collins, cupping his hands gently around his waist and peering over his shoulder. 

“Found any treasure yet?”

Collins grunted and lent back into Farrier’s support. “You know what I’m doing. Trying to find my jacket. They cut it off for no good reason,” 

Rubbing his face against Collins’s neck, Farrier hummed. “It was covered in blood and soot,”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Collins groused, throwing a handful of rags back in the crate. He turned to look at Farrier. 

“I could’ve fixed it up. They didn’t even ask.”

“I know, pet.”

“I can’t see it though.”

“That’s because you’re here, isn’t it?” Farrier laughed as Collins screwed his face up in confusion. 

“ _What_? ”

“I put it on your bunk, under the pillow so Mack wouldn’t spot it. You know what he’s like, he’ll - ”

Collins didn’t give him a chance to finish, grabbing his head with his good arm and kissing him hard, his tongue halfway down Farrier’s throat, all the relief and frustration of the day pushing him on. 

Farrier went along, absorbing all the force Collins was directing at him and deftly getting their bodies pressed up against a shelf where he pushed a leg between Collins’s thighs. 

Collins was riding a rush of pleasure that overrode the pain in his arm, giddy from having Farrier pressed up tightly against him, his mouth open and full under Collins’s lips, their breath combining. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and fancied Farrier’s was thumping at the same tempo. 

Then the kiss broke, Farrier pulling back from him. Collins made a grumpy sound, pushed his bad arm against Farrier’s chest in protest, then noticed that Farrier was distracted by something he’d spotted on the shelf behind them. 

Smiling broadly, Farrier held up his find in front of Collins’s face. A brand new tin of Vaseline. 

“And here I was,” Collins muttered, “thinking you were just a pretty face.”

 

Clambouring on top of the pile of blankets, they fumbled at belt buckles and shoe laces, Collins shimmying out of his trousers with his head feeling light as a balloon while his cock was an iron weight under his belly. He went to flip over and Farrier stopped him.

“Not good for your arm, wait,” and he bent down to retrieve Collins’s discarded trousers, rolling them up between his sturdy hands. 

“Hitch up, there,” he told Collins, who eagerly lifted his hips to have the makeshift cushion slipped under them. 

The lid of the tin popped open, and Collins was too dizzy with anticipation to worry about the cold stickiness at his entrance, feeling the heat of Farrier’s breath glance over his cock and balls. 

Lying back, he watched the knots form on Farrier’s brow as he worked him open. When he had two fingers inside, Collins tipped his head back and breathed out roughly, his eyes watering. He was trying to keep it down, they had the whole ward just a wall away from them, after all, but the tips of Farrier’s hands felt like the return of a missing piece. He could almost give up flying for this, give up breathing, give up everything else, just as long as Farrier didn’t stop. 

He didn’t. He moved Collins’s legs up over his shoulder, getting their faces that much closer, and pushed his thick length in. It felt like a never-ending roll of thunder had started inside him, that between the two of them they could bring the whole sky down. 

Collins rocked back and forth with the force of Farrier’s thrusts, not trying to meet him with any exertion, just letting himself be pushed into. His bones felt like rubber, his muscles liquid. 

Lips brushed his sternum. Collins was too slack to push up and steal a kiss, instead he arched back further, letting Farrier know he was as open as possible. As a hand took hold of his cock, his eyes fluttered closed. 

When it hit him, he unwound all the pain in his body, letting it scatter far away. Collins registered the mess he’d made all over Farrier’s hand and his own stomach, but he was too dazed to take much notice. His good arm lifted up to rake sweaty fingers through Farrier’s hair, thumbing at the worry lines on his forehead and the plump weight of his lower lip. 

Farrier’s eyes screwed shut as his own release came, and Collins petted the side of his head as he shook through it. Some distant voice from the back of his head told him they were being outrageous, that this was too risky. As risky, he chimed back, as climbing into the sky and going to face the enemy with just air underneath you? 

There was stillness then, inside his head and over his body, as Farrier sagged forward over him. 

This was the best trick that Collins had ever learned for getting rid of fear. Right then, there was nothing to worry about, not the man above him, or the wreckage of his plane, or the damage done to his favourite jacket. Just sweet silence all around his heart, still beating under his skin. 

 


End file.
